


to begin again (to be utterly wild)

by romantiser



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, also...this is what happens when they make you wait for the reunion, brief mention of dark thoughts, god what even is this, let my babies be happy @ wtfock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantiser/pseuds/romantiser
Summary: He closes his eyes, head against the pillow.Sander’s there: all dark, empty eyes that flicker back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like he can’t focus. His mind is far too wired to concentrate on anything other than the racing thoughts he can never quite catch up to. Instead, Robbe recalls the way Sander’s arms wrapped around himself, scratching, fidgeting, searching for an exit like he was ready to crawl his way out of the skin that imprisons him.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	to begin again (to be utterly wild)

Robbe can’t breathe.

His chest is too tight; too constricted; like he’s underwater with no way of breaking the surface to catch his breath. His limbs are anchors; weighing him down, tethering him to this very moment. His phone screen flickers again, but he ignores the dull ache that rises in his throat. He swallows it down and pretends that it doesn’t twist his stomach into knots, bile rising in his sternum.

His phone is vibrating again.

Robbe ignores it like he has been for the last couple of hours. He can only hope that his silence will cement the fact that he doesn’t want to talk anymore to whoever is trying so hard to reach him. His phone blinks again, then the screen fades to black.

Robbe’s so tired of talking; of listening, too.

Milan has knocked on his door at least ten times in the last two hours, checking in on him, asking him if there’s anything he needs and while he appreciates it, Robbe much prefers the silent aftermath that the weekend dragged in with it.

He closes his eyes, head against the pillow.

Sander’s there: all dark, empty eyes that flicker back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like he can’t focus. His mind is far too wired to concentrate on anything other than the racing thoughts he can never quite catch up to. Instead, Robbe recalls the way Sander’s arms wrapped around himself, scratching, fidgeting, searching for an exit like he was ready to crawl his way out of the skin that imprisons him.

It’s this: Robbe knows he was spiralling.

His absent talk of death, like it was a joke, like the topic itself was funny, as if he was searching for an answer that Robbe couldn’t give him. Sander latched onto it, tucked it into his smile and pretended that the only way to hold onto this feeling—this euphoria, this intensity, this feeling of intimacy—was to die with it rather than let the moment end.

But that doesn’t make sense.

Because death means the end of everything.

No more Chernobyl moments where confusion and lack of communication almost tore them apart. No more afternoons spent locked away, his hands on Sander, their laughter intertwining into echoes that bounce off the walls around them, embracing them in a warmth that Robbe hasn’t experienced for years.

Instead, there’d be an empty space where Sander should be.

“Robbe.”

Robbe shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk.”

“I won’t ask you to.”

It’s Sunday afternoon. The air is cold, misty windows, a layer of frost on the grass outside. Robbe can somehow still feel the chill: it’s a deep-bone shiver that rattles his ribcage, a voice screaming: “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!” He doesn’t know whose voice it is. It’s muffled; a hand over their mouth, screaming into a pillow, or like laughter underwater. All he can recognise is the desperation that clings to every syllable; a cry for help that everyone pretends that they can’t hear.

He presses his hands against his ears, the steady weight of tears reminding him to breathe it all in, then exhale it all out.

A snake shedding its skin.

A Phoenix rising from its ashes.

A reincarnation from everything wrong.

But that’s not how these things work.

There’s another knock on his door, except this time, Milan isn’t the one standing there. Jens has his hands in pocket, leaning up against the door jamb and looking so guilty that the hurt in Robbe’s stomach flares up, morphing into a raging wildfire, burning with pain and he can barely feel his heartbeat over the white noise that’s like static in his veins.

“Talk to me, Robbe.”

Robbe shakes his head again. “I don’t want to talk.”

“I know Jana came to see you.”

Robbe only lies back down on his bed, eyes focusing on the small amount of paint that’s peeling away in the corner. He thinks about picking at it, watching as the ceiling unravels around him, like a loose thread on a jumper. He wants to paint over it, to fix it, to wash away all the bad and replace it with the new. It’s a metaphor, in theory; when he thinks about it. Not a very good one, but a metaphor all the same.

Robbe scoffs, “Is that all you care about?”

It’s harsh and uncalled for, but Robbe doesn’t care. All he can focus on is Sander. About how Sander is. Whether he’s feeling better. Sander. Sander. Sander. The bed dips a little, and when Robbe glances up, Jens is sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

A gentle reminder that he’s not going anywhere.

The guilt rises up again as Robbe struggles to find the words. He wants to apologise for being so short, but when he opens his mouth to speak, all words seem to fail him. It’s only when Jens offers him a small, tentative smile that Robbe can relax again.

“I care about you more,” Jens says then, glancing away before he adds, “I thought you’d know that.”

“I didn’t mean —”

“Robbe,” Jens cuts him off gently, adding, “If anyone needs to apologise it’s me. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.”

It’s after sundown, and the light that streams in through the window is fragmented by fog hanging low over the cityscape. The bed is bare, and the room grows cold with disuse. Milan’s made a few offhand comments about it, something about how the place could use a loving touch, but the words don’t sit right.

Not anymore.

Not since Sander.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Robbe doesn’t wait for an answer before he stands, hair tangled around his fingers as he stops himself from reaching for his phone. He’s already reached out once; something about how he didn’t know what to think and that it’d be better to end it now. He can’t remember the exact words. All he knows is that his heart cracked the moment he saw Sander had read it. The message sits unanswered; the voice is in his head telling him that it’s over; that there’s no logical way back.

Maybe this is the ending he deserves.

“Robbe,” Jens calls him, but his voice is muffled; like he’s far away.

The room is too warm; claustrophobic. He stumbles to the window, throwing it open and welcoming the frigid winter air that sneaks in, burying his skin in goosebumps. He breathes in the fresh air, savouring every breath like it might just be his last.

“Robbe.”

He can’t focus.

With every second that passes, Robbe can feel his heart pound with exhilaration, the nervous energy travelling through his body, bouncing off every single pressure point until this feeling in his chest makes his whole body throb with frustration. It’s not easy to admit what this feeling is; that he feels anything at all. How is he supposed to explain the guilt that’s eating away at him when he doesn’t understand it?

He thinks of his mother, and the shame rises.

“Robbe,” Jens’ voice is harsher; grounding him.

“I can’t —”

A hand on his shoulder, a gentle shake and then Jens is murmuring softly in his ear. “Breathe, Robbe.”

A distant echo of a slamming door comes like punctuation, concluding the mild panic that crosses Robbe’s face. Jens appears in his eye line, mildly concerned as he reaches out with a steady hand. In less than a few minutes, Jens has become his biggest crutch, someone to pick him up when he falls and a distraction to the heartache that’s undoubtedly about to drown him.

“It didn’t happen to you, Robbe.”

He falters, murmuring, “I know. I was there.”

“Then you should know that whatever you might be feeling,” Jens says, “I can guarantee Sander is feeling a thousand times worse.”

Robbe lets the words sink in.

He already knows it’s true. Sander had been the one to experience the fall after the high; the crash after the euphoria. He’d only watched as the world set alight around him. His heart was racing in the early hours, from fear and hurt and the confusion that was too overwhelming to decipher.

Except it’s not the hurt that’s crushing his chest now.

It’s something else, something he can’t name quite yet.

He tries to blame it on the guilt, but he’s not entirely sure what it would, or what it should feel like. He’s not sure he’s ever experienced that feeling of intense, relentless, unforgiving remorse that eats away at one’s sanity until there’s nothing left. He feels guilty for pushing Sander away; for not being there for him; for dismissing Sander’s feelings on the word of his ex-girlfriend.

It’s consuming him; a raging inferno.

“When Britt told me it wasn’t real,” Robbe tells him; “I believed her.”

The hours crawl by slowly, moon blinking up high.

It’s another night that Robbe can’t sleep. One of those nights where his thoughts are spiralling so fast that not even the alcohol under his bed can take the edge off. It’s suffocating him. A hand wrapped around his throat. A noose tied tight. He can almost feel his body, suspended in midair. He can taste the hereafter; all bittersweet and melancholy, something dark amid the warmth that spreads through his chest.

Robbe names it hope, but it grips him like fear.

“If I went to Sander and told him you didn’t love him,” Jen reiterates, voice harsher now. “How would you feel?”

“It’s not the same —”

“Except that it is, Robbe.”

Robbe is off the ledge, pacing the length of his bedroom as he runs his hands through his hair. He’s exhausted; he hasn’t slept a wink in over forty-eight hours and counting, not when all he can think about is Sander, Sander, Sander. He wants to throw his phone, wants to watch as it smashes into little pieces that can’t be put back together. Because then at least he wouldn’t be alone in feeling so helpless and broken.

“Britt was wrong to blame it on you.”

“She’s known him longer than —”

“Knowing someone longer doesn’t mean a thing, Robbe,” Jens explains, softly, gently as he places a hand on Robbe’s shoulder. “It’s not a matter of how long you’ve known them; it’s a matter of how well you know them, of how easily they’ve allowed you into their life, of how natural it feels to be around them.”

“Britt —”

Jens interrupts with a, “Britt doesn’t know him.”

“Of course she does.”

“Not in the way you know him, Robbe.”

“So? That could easily be a part of his mania, couldn’t it?”

“Or, maybe he was telling the truth all along.”

Robbe stops for a moment. “The truth about what?”

“About him loving you. About leaving Britt.”

“But how am —”

“Robbe.”

Robbe stops himself the moment he sees his phone in Jens’ hands. It’s a clear invitation: text Sander and find out for himself. It’s tempting. Of course, it is, but the doubt is already creeping in. Dousing him in a cold shower of reality. Reigniting every single reason why he should keep his distance.

What if Britt was right all along?

What if Robbe reaches out only to be shot down?

What if this thing between them was a delusion?

Robbe’s not sure he could handle the heartbreak, not yet. He needs time to wrap his head around it all. For everything to calm down so he can finally process every single moment. So he can attempt to understand it before he can learn to move forward.

“I can’t,” he murmurs eventually. “I’m not ready yet.”

“I understand, Robbe, but try not to wait too long,” Jens says, placing the phone on the nightstand. “I should probably go.”

It’s late; late enough that Robbe asks him if he wants to stay. It’s not like they haven’t shared a bed before, and if he was sincere, he’d admit that he doesn’t want to be alone. He’s not ready to be alone with his thoughts. Jens seems to read between the lines because he takes his jacket off and nods, accepting without a moment of hesitation.

“Thank you.”

Jens shakes his head. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

Robbe watches as Jens takes his shoes off, climbing onto the bed and stretching out with a yawn. He’s tired. It’s easy to see now that Robbe is taking a moment to study him. There are dark circles under his eyes; mouth pulled into a frown; eyelids drooping as he leans over and turns the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness.

“Can you try and do something for me?”

Robbe hums. “Depends on what it is.”

A pause, and then, “Stop listening to everyone else, Robbe.”

Robbe can feel the weight on his chest lessen as he breathes, waiting for the moment Jens falls asleep. His head is pounding; the oncoming realisation of everything that’s happened in such a short space of time. It feels like he can’t breathe when he overthinks, but it’s this, too: Sander is the one in pain.

Sander is the one with the world tilting on its axis.

Sander.

Sander.

 _Sander_.

“No one knows him like you do,” Jens adds, as an afterthought. “Remember that.”

* * *

**DINSDAG 12:12**

**ROBBE** : Scratch that last text

 **ROBBE** : I’ve been able to think about it, and I want you.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr dot com](http://birminghams.tumblr.com)


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